


WOULD RATHER NOT BE

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Another one of those weird Marco on the Red Force post-Marineford ficcc., Canon Compliant, Character Study, Even though he came in on the Moby lol kjuhyg., Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, LOOSELy. Yeah., Post-Marineford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: (A HOUSE SLATED FOR DEMOLITION, OR THE WRECKING BALL, OR A TEAM OF DESPERATE MEN WITH SLEDGEHAMMERS.)“You know,” Marco snickers, shoulder cutting a sharp edge between him and the rival captain as Shanks watches from his vantage on the bed, “I never quite figured out what to do with candles when I’ve burned the wick down.”
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	WOULD RATHER NOT BE

“You know,” Marco snickers, shoulder cutting a sharp edge between him and the rival captain as Shanks watches from his vantage on the bed, “I never quite figured out what to do with candles when I’ve burned the wick down.”

Shanks blinks a little, leans back onto his elbow and tucks his feet up, away from the warm hardwoods of the  _ Force _ to tangle into downy sheets. Marco’s arms are shaking ever so slightly as his elbow shifts, snuffing a wick with dry fingers and coaxing blue flame to meet red. Shanks misses it, the way his face scrunches in pain and he drives his teeth into his lower lip with his back to the man, but can watch the way the smoke skims over his shoulder, wispy and dark before it thins out into the ceiling. The  _ Force _ happily takes it in, always a ship with confident stride and easy breath. 

“Because-yoi,” Marco turns his head as he continues, smiling at Shanks with tired eyes and too many teeth, pressed closer to a grimace than a grin, “there’s always so much wax left over.” He swirls the glass jar, stout and small enough to fit easily in caging fingers, as if in explanation. Liquid moves, sluggish even so soon after being warmed, going opaque as it rims the glass in smooth motions. Marco stands, setting the glass on the desk as he does, pushing his chair in with an ease so sharp it’s forceful. 

He steps closer, bare feet quiet on usually jolly floors, creaking happily as their captain steps in with a stagger, and the redhead sits up a little to meet him, give the man the commanding gravitas he deserves when control falls so hard and fast between parted feathers splayed to make a net of delicate blue. 

“Would it be fair?” and, oh, he’s pleading, and it  _ hurts _ . Shanks sits up fully, brings his fingers to span a coarse jawline, rough with a week’s worth of stubble usually kept rather trim. Shanks doesn’t answer, so Marco fists white-knuckled hands in his shirt, ignoring the tender touch along the cut of his jaw that would usually send him spinning back in a flare of phoenix flame (his phoenix coos, instead, brittle and aching, happy for the touch and repulsed with the seeking of comfort). 

“To put another wick in-yoi. It’s given all its had, hasn’t it?” Marco huffs a laugh between clenched teeth, eyes flaring a little, “but it can give more, can’t it?” 

Shank’s eyes soften, leaching of playfulness, and he takes Marco to the bed, moving his arm to wrap his shoulders and pull him into his chest. It’s too much, bare skin against Pops’ crest, so he recoils, rolling over to lay beside him. 

“Write a letter,” Shanks offers, toothy grin untouched by the dregs of hurt following rejection, content to appease the blonde for once. Marco quirks an eyebrow, drawing still-shaky hands to cross over his stomach, letting his fingers knit as if bolting him to the bed where his elbows push dark shadow into red velvet. The silence stretches between them, gelatinous and webbed, a twitch of Shanks’ abdomen, the tightening of Marco’s fingers to draw his arms ever tighter across his stomach sending bouncing waves across.  _ To whom  _ remains unspoken.

“Just because you’ve burned,” the captain pauses, feels the scars over his eye ache, before amending his statement, “‘cause you can burn, doesn’t mean you have to forever. Doesn’t mean you’re meant to forever.” He gestures abstractly, giving his shoulders a roll. “Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere?”

“You’re no good at this-yoi,” Marco laughs, weighted with grief, traces the grain of the ceiling with his gaze. To melt like that, be pressed between delicately folded leaf and hold dear contents just as delicately is to promise something he doesn’t know if he has anymore. Having a destination, a marked role to fulfill, and to be happily, dutifully discarded as an embellishment once he’d been torn open with little more than a second glance would have suited him well, he thinks, but he struggles now, in finding a deserving mark to bear, a message to carry. Ah, expect, maybe--

“Yeah, haha, I know.” 

Shanks’ stump lifts as he laughs, eyes scrunched and face gaping, letting the boisterous noise echo and catch in the dim room, and Marco thinks of Luffy. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title's from M. Mccoy's _Ash Year_ which I cannot for the life of me find an actual version of, lol. I usually use lyrics so I don't bother with credit but I'll mention it. 
> 
> Not supremely happy with this (middle-end especially, a little on-the-nose for my tastes, but I didn't think I could get it across unless I wrote it out, and Marco's a thoughtful guy like that, if a little more pragmatic, haha) but it be like that. It's whateve. 
> 
> Please leave a comment or something if you can, thank you for reading!
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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